Monday, December 09, 2013

The Perfect Grave

I don’t want the sun to part the curtains of dirt
And wake you from the sleep I put you to
I don’t want drops of rain to trickle down
And dampen your peaceful shroud

Where can I bury you, my love?
Where can I bury you?

I don’t want you to listen to songs of hope
And reach out for the life above
I don’t want you to grab on to words of courage
And drag yourself away from the truth

Where can I bury you, my love?
Where can I bury you?

Where no one will ever find you
Where no voice will ever reach you
Where no light will ever trace you

Where can I bury you, my love?
Where can I bury you?

A Pocketful of Smiles

Waking up in the morning is rough
With my best foe hangover
My mouth is dry, and the eyes groggy
And the head’s spinning over and over

But it’s not, half as bad
And it’s not, half as hell
With your smile, in my pocket

My ageing bike gives up again
The bugger won’t start no matter
And the auto guys are out to loot
And they won’t go by the meter

But it’s not, half as bad
And it’s not, half as hell
With your smile, in my pocket

Work’s a bitch and bites like one
I’m bruised from my head to my toe
It’s piling up like the garbage hill
There’s nowhere for me to go

But it’s not, half as bad
And it’s not, half as hell
With your smile, in my pocket

The Stranded Optimist

I sat there by the empty road
Deep in conversation
Hours and hours, ages after
With the signpost next to me

We spoke of love and latitudes
Of cyanides and coconuts
We never ran out of words
Even our silence was chatty

The first car came by afternoon
One full of things pretty and young
Their trunk was loaded with vodka
And barrels of lust and blood

They said they were off to denial town
And wanted me to hop along
But I was off to the city of truth
And politely declined the ride

Then came the happy caravan
Strumming and plucking and raving
They played tunes of fame
And had every note in place

They were off to never never land
A land not so far away
But I was off to solitude
A place that was not on their way

Darkness was next on the road
Gathering speed with the setting sun
The signpost logged out for the day
Ending the conversation with it

I sat there by the dark, empty road
Not a headlight within miles
I waited and waited and waited more
For the bus that never came

Text Maniacs

Who are you texting, my dear driver?
What is so important that you cannot wait until you get home to deliver that message?
Are you texting Superman, directing him to a damsel in distress, somewhere in Gurgaon?
Are you texting a girl, telling her how much you love her before she leaves the country forever?
Are you texting a politician, crying about the plight of the roads in your locality?
Are you texting a scientist, to share an idea you have to fight global warming?
Are you texting a researcher, explaining a homemade cure for cancer?
Are you texting a reporter, informing him of a scandal that is about to shame our nation?
Are you texting an activist, on how to give the underprivileged kids a proper education?
Are you texting the police, to provide them with evidence to solve a sensational case?
Are you texting your mother, to tell her how you’ve decided to step out of the closet?
Are you texting a failed singer, telling her how there are hundreds who love her voice?
Are you texting God, with a simple plan to answer more prayers than usual?
Are you texting a government official, reminding him of his responsibility of serving the country?
Are you texting the driver of a school bus, warning him of an impending accident?
Are you texting a kidney donor, asking him to help an old lady in dire need?
Are you texting the US President, requesting him to withdraw his troops?
Are you texting the Taliban leader, demanding that he let Afghan women play football?
Are you texting Pele, urging him to come out of retirement?
Are you texting Dhoni, pleading with him to promote football for a while?
Or do you simply think that you are the center of the universe and any harm your action might cause is irrelevant? I think it is the latter. So, fuck off!

The Crossing

I know that you know her well, we all do
That girl who’s always in a hurry to go
Throwing helpless looks and pouty pouts at you
As she waits, eagerly to cross the busy road

You watch as the heartless cars and bikes pass by
And catch one of the many looks she threw
It slides and goes all the way down to your feet
Lifting your foot and slamming it on the brakes

She looks at you, thanking you maybe
Her fingers working on unzipping her large bag
You wait as she navigates the mess inside
All that while still standing by the road

Truckers and cab guys and their friends abuse you
You however, hold tight for the damsel in distress
You are her prince, charming or not so charming
And you will hold your horses, until she passes

Her hands emerges from the bag with an iPhone
Blood rushes back to paint her pale face to life
She busily texts as if her life depended on it
All that and more while still standing by the road

Your patience wears thin with every key she presses
Your foot slowly moves towards the accelerator
The car, you can sense, is almost as angry as you
And just jolts the engine awake as if to run her over

The roar of the Fiat wakes her up as if from a dream
She jumps on to the road with a sprinter’s urgency
In an instant she turns into a rabbit in the headlights
And stares blankly at your windshield and your surprised eyes

You stop again somehow, hitting the brake just on time
As she clambers on to the footpath across the road
There is chaos and commotion and speeding abuses
As a crowd of Samaritans comes to the damsel’s rescue

You roll down your window in genuine concern
To see if she was alright, if only to wash away your guilt
As the crowd parts, you catch a glimpse of the girl
There is no thank you, but just a middle finger flip